


We are the Waiting

by grey2510



Series: Tumblr Prompts and Requests (SPN) [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s12e08 LOTUS, Post-Episode: s12e09 First Blood kinda, Pre-Relationship, written before episode airs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:25:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8967262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: Castiel and Mary break Dean and Sam out of the prison, but it doesn't all go according to plan. Dean and Sam find themselves facing another long night of waiting.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Proud_Fanboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proud_Fanboy/gifts).



> Written for a Tumblr prompt 44. “If you die, I’m gonna kill you.” -- requested by ProudFanboy
> 
> Title taken from the Green Day song, "Are We the Waiting".
> 
> Also, this was written post-12x08/pre-12x09, but takes place (technically) post-12x09. There's references to what we see in the trailer for that episode, but I'm sure some of this will be Jossed once the episode airs.

_Drip._

 

_Drip._

 

_Drip._

 

The condensation from the air vents never stops dripping. The barred and unreachable fluorescent light in the left corner of the ceiling buzzes and hums.

_Scrtch. Scrtch._

Another mark on the wall.

Another day in this place.

_Cas, if you hear this...it ain’t good, man. I—I need you. Just...just come. Please._

 

**********

 

“Are you sure this will work?” Mary asks from the driver’s seat of the Impala. It’s strange seeing anyone but Dean—or even Sam—there, but she had looked at the car with such envy and nostalgia and love when Castiel had met her in Batesville, Nebraska that he had honestly felt relieved to hand over the keys and relinquish responsibility for the beloved vehicle.  

Castiel looks down at the bluish glass sphere in his hands. It’s glowing softly with tendrils of Grace, and the delicate etchwork on the surface flashes occasionally. He cradles it gently with both hands, careful not to break it; when broken, the Grace should react with the spellwork and knock any human in its vicinity unconscious. Dean probably would have come up with a nickname for the device, Castiel reflects. Perhaps “Holy Hand Grenade"—Castiel thinks that might be an appropriate pop culture reference, but then again, Dean has always been quick to point out that making a reference is not always the same as making a _good_ reference; Castiel is still unsure what distinguishes the two. Humans are strange.

“It should disable the guards long enough for you to follow and get Sam and Dean out,” Castiel confirms. “Is your arm still good?”

Mary nods, pushing back her sleeve to reveal the carefully drawn Enochian script done in black Sharpie. “What about Sam and Dean?”

“They, um,” Castiel hedges, “they have certain protections regarding Grace. I may have carved warding on to their ribs several years ago.”

“Right,” she mutters. “And you?”

Castiel turns to Mary, sees how her jaw is set; he recognizes that look: he’s seen it on both of her sons’ faces.

“Theoretically, it should only draw from the Grace already extracted and in the sphere.”

“I know the theory, Castiel. I’m asking what happens if the theory’s wrong. Don’t bullshit me.”

He sighs. “At best, it weakens me, or I also become unconscious. At worst, it kills me. Somewhere in the middle would be losing my Grace and becoming human.”

Mary’s eyebrows raise. “That can happen?”

“It has before.” With a wry smile, and clearly still stuck on the same movie train of thought as before, he adds, “I got better.”

She purses her lips and stares out the windshield at the vague cement block of a building in the distance. Whether Mary doesn’t get the joke, she is choosing to ignore the joke, or Castiel has somehow failed in its delivery is unclear; what is clear is that Mary is worried about the whole situation, and Castiel can’t blame her for that. It’s been six weeks—six long, long weeks—since Sam and Dean have gone missing. Sam prays regularly, but not as regularly as Dean. While it has been mildly comforting to know they are both alive, it has been getting more and more difficult to hear the growing despair and withdrawal in their voices.

“The chances of this killing me are very slim, if it would make you feel better.” As with anything in this life, there is risk of death, but for once Castiel isn’t making a suicidal sacrifice. He wants Dean and Sam free, but he also wants to be alive for that moment.

“Let’s go,” is all Mary says.

And so they do.

 

**********

 

Sam sits up abruptly on his cot at the sound of faint shouting in the hallway and the popping of muffled gunfire. He rushes to the door and puts his ear to the cold metal, but it’s all too indistinct.

A sudden flash of familiar bright white light from around the cracks between the door and the jamb makes Sam instinctively step back and cover his eyes.

_Cas! Is that you? Please be you. Please get us out of here._

There’s the sound of a small explosion to the right of his room—Dean’s room, Sam thinks, based on when they were first shuffled into their cells. Faint voices echo his way, until finally there’s pounding on his door.

“Sam?!”

“Mom?” he calls out in disbelief. His voice is cracked from disuse.

“Stand back, we gotta blow the door,” she instructs.  

Dutifully, he retreats to the back of the cell, sliding to the ground and covering his head with his arms, just in case. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his mother with what he assumes must be C4, but he’d rather not spend six weeks in a cell only to get injured during the escape.

The explosion is small enough to only cause dust and a few small pieces of shrapnel his way, but it blows the hinges of the door just fine—no need to deal with the electronic lock. His eardrums pound and he coughs through the dust. Looking up, he sees Mary Winchester framed in the door like an avenging angel.

It’s the best sight he’s seen in weeks.

 

**********

 

As soon as she had blown the door on Dean’s cell Mary’d seen the immediate conflict in his eyes: the need to save and protect Sam (which, from what she’s gathered, has been his Prime Directive ever since she died) warring with the pull towards the angel collapsed against a wall at the end of the corridor.

Castiel had made it past the guards and had been able to direct them through the labyrinth of corridors, apparently following a sense of “longing"—she has yet to unravel the many layers of that angelic revelation—before he had sunk to the ground.

“Go, I need...to rest,” he had forced out, his eyes blinking slowly once before closing.

Once released, and unknowingly echoing the angel, Dean had pursed his lips before saying, tersely, “Go, get Sammy out of here.”

Thankfully, Sam had not needed any assistance walking; she and Dean certainly would have had to switch as there is no way she could have supported her youngest son’s weight. Even Castiel would have been difficult to manage.

Instead, she and Sam had found Dean holding up Castiel with one arm around his waist and the angel’s arm over his shoulders. Without hesitating, Sam had taken the angel’s other arm, and the brothers had assisted the angel walk out of the facility, Mary taking point in case any of the guards awoke.

“Some rescue plan, buddy,” Dean had feebly teased, his words tight, once they’d made it halfway to the car.

“One of...my better...ones,” the angel had rejoined before his head lolled forward and Sam and Dean had had to resort to carrying him the rest of the way.

Now, they’re a few hours gone, driving just enough over the speed limit to put some distance between themselves and the prison, but not fast enough to attract police attention. But even the familiar rumble of the engine as she drives isn’t enough to calm her. Sam is tense in the seat beside her. Dean is in the back with Castiel, trying valiantly to force the angel into consciousness.

“C’mon, Cas,” he growls for what must be the hundredth time. “Wake up, buddy.”

“Dean, he needs a hospital,” Sam says, which earns a scoff.

“And what, try to explain to a bunch of civilian docs that we need to cure an angel? He ain’t human, Sam!”

“He might be,” Mary says. She can feel two sets of eyes on her. “Castiel said the spell might make him human.”

In the rearview mirror, she catches Dean look at the angel with an odd mix of concern, frustration, and...something else. Fondness? “Cas, you stupid sonofabitch.” He looks up and meets her eyes, nodding once. “Alright. Hospital.”

 

There are a lot more...gadgets at hospitals now. Mary’s not sure why she’s surprised, considering how everything else has changed in the past thirty years. Although, there’s a part of her that’s somehow weirdly comforted by the fact that people still need medical care in much the same way they did before—it’s not like they wave a magical device the size of these cellphones and you’re instantly healed.

The nurses take Castiel in immediately, leaving her with her boys in the waiting room (now here is something that _definitely_ hasn’t changed, with the exception of the TV mounted on the wall in the corner: uncomfortable seats, beige and light mint green walls, some mangled magazines on the table). Dean alternates between pacing and sitting with his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees, head bowed. Sam sits and stares at the TV without really watching.

They look healthy enough—maybe a little paler than normal, a little gaunt, a little haunted in the eyes. Dean fidgets with the cuff of his jacket, runs his hands over the legs of his jeans, as if trying to refamiliarize himself with his own clothing. Mary’s glad there were spare clothes in a duffel in the trunk; it would have been difficult to explain the prison jumpsuits.

“Sam, Dean—" They both look at her, startled, as if they’d forgotten she was there. She forgets what she was even going to say.

“Never did say thanks, did we?” Dean says, filling the void.

“Yeah, thank you, Mom.”

“Of course.”

Dean gets up again, presumably to ask the nurses if they’ve heard anything, leaving Mary sitting next to Sam.

“It’s funny,” Sam says, humorlessly, “I thought once I got out, I’d just talk, a lot. I had so many things I wanted to say when I was in there. Can’t think of a single one now.”

Covering his wrist with her hand, she says, “Castiel will be ok.”

Sam frowns, then glances over his shoulder to the nurses’ station. Dean’s just turning back from the desk, running a hand over his mouth. “Yeah. He better be. Not that I don’t want him better, obviously, but I’m, uh, I’m not sure how’d Dean’d take it if..."

She knows how that sentence ends, but she has so many more questions about this angel and her boys. “You and Castiel are close,” she says, unsure. “But Castiel and Dean are...closer?”

“Something like that.” Sam shifts in his seat. “Cas is my friend, like a brother, you know? But him and Dean? Whole other ballgame. I don’t even think they know what it is.”

“Oh.”

Dean approaches, grumbling. “Friggin’ nurses won’t tell me anything.”

“Why? Not family?” Sam asks.

“Nah, signed him in as Cas Winchester. Not like the dude has a last name of his own and didn’t want him popping up as Jimmy Novak.” Dean thunks down into a seat across from them. “Guess they’re still running tests on him.”

The brothers exchange a look that she can’t quite decipher, and not for the first time does she feel completely isolated from her own sons. She knows it’s not their fault, and it’s not intentional, but it’s unavoidable.

“I guess we just wait,” Sam says with resignation.

“Right,” Dean snorts. “Good thing we got plenty of practice.”

 

**********

 

“So what’d we miss while we were gone?” Dean asks his mother, trying to take his mind off of well...everything. “Trump our President now?”

“Um..." Mary responds, and Dean realizes belatedly that asking her about current politics is probably a shot in the dark.

Sam gives him a look like, _That’s what you’re asking about? Really?_

“What? I was kinda hoping that was a wacky prison fever dream.”

His brother’s eyes narrow. “Did you...did you have any of those?”

“What, no,” he defends. Even if he had, it’s not like he’d be signing up for a group therapy session in the middle of the fucking ER while Cas is...

Shit.

Cas.

How many times does Dean need to tell him not to pull this shit? Because if Cas dies...

“Mr. Winchester?” a hesitant female voice asks. All three of them perk up instantly, and Dean’s on his feet in a heartbeat, finding himself facing a very petite nurse in maroonish scrubs. She looks between the three of them. “Um...are all of you here for Cas Winchester?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, gesturing to each of them. “Uh...brothers and...cousin. Is he...is he ok?”

She gives an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been told to escort you to his room. The doctor has some questions.”

Questions. That doesn’t sound good.

 

**********

 

“Sir,” the doctor—a woman in her late fifties with iron-grey streaks amongst dark curls and firm eyes behind red-rimmed glasses—begins, “do you know if Mr. Winchester was on any drugs? Had any pre-existing illnesses?”

Sam watches as his brother’s face turns even more ashen.

“No, why?”

She pushes her glasses a little higher on her nose, then looks between Dean and himself. Mary is a few feet behind them, obviously unsure of where she belongs in all this.

“Well, it’s just...I don’t know _what’s_ wrong with Mr. Winchester—"

“Cas,” Dean interrupts.

“Yes, Cas,” the doctor continues. “We’ve given him every test in the book—MRIs, CT scan, if it’s got an acronym, we tested him with it—and his tests _don’t make sense_. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

For most people, this would be troubling. Sam thinks it’s a sad commentary on their lives that this is actually possibly _good_ news. If Cas isn’t reading normally, then maybe...

“What do you mean?” Dean asks.     

Frowning, the doctor opens up Cas’ file and takes out a printout of what looks like a brain activity map: four brain outlines on one sheet and parts of each brain are lit up in different patterns of blues and reds and greens and oranges. They both stare at the picture as though it means anything to them.

“And that’s bad?” Sam asks.

She shakes her head. “No, this is a normal brain.” She pulls out a second page. And this one is...definitely different. It looks like a nest of hair-thin lines of those same colors. “This is Cas’ brain. And that’s not all. EKG, glucose levels, _everything_ —none of them are in normal ranges, and they don’t even match up in terms of medical emergencies.”

“Oh. Uh,” Dean says, but really what can his brother say? It’s not like either one of them can come up with an excuse for this.

Then again, they’re just concerned family members, not medical professionals. It’s not their job to come up with the explanations, and luckily the doctor doesn’t seem to expect them to. If anything, she looks worried that they’re going to blame her for not having an answer.

“I’m sorry. We’ll do more tests, but for now, the best we can do is monitor his vitals, such as they are, and see if he comes out of this on his own.”

“Has he woken up at all?” Sam asks. They haven’t even been in the room yet, the doctor having cornered them in the hallway.

“No, not yet. Well, I say yet, but honestly, I can’t say whether he will or he won’t.”

“Can we...can we see him?” Dean’s voice nearly cracks on the question.

The doctor nods. “Of course.”

Without waiting for further invitation, Dean enters the room, Sam and Mary close behind. Cas is propped up on a bed, and Sam is relieved to see that he seems to be breathing on his own, and his only support system is the IV bag standing sentry by his side with the monitors.

It takes Dean all of two seconds to establish his place in the room, pulling up a chair right by the bed. A hesitant hand goes out to Cas’ shoulder, gently shaking him, as though this might be the solution to waking the angel up.

To be fair, it’s worth a shot. Sam’s seen far more miraculous or surprising things in his day.

“He looks so...human,” Mary whispers.

Sam turns to her, notices how stone-faced and surprised she is. Sam thinks he understands what she means: Cas might have a human body, but there’s something inherently alien and foreign about him—the way he moves, the way he speaks. And Sam knows Mary is still trying to process and come to terms with the fact that this supernatural being, this actual, literal _angel_ ,is their friend and family.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll go get us some coffee,” Mary says. “Maybe something to eat. I saw signs for a cafeteria.”

“Oh, I can help—" Sam offers half-heartedly.

She puts a hand on his arm. “No, you stay. This is...this is a family thing.”

Sam’s thankful that either Dean didn’t hear that or is pretending he didn't. “You’re family, Mom.”

“I know. Just, you’re needed here more than I am.”

Before he can stop her, she leaves. A nurse—the one who brought them from the waiting room—enters a second later, gently asking Dean to shift so she can check Cas’ vitals on her rounds; Dean moves only just enough to allow her access, his hand reluctantly retreating from Cas’ arm. Sam is still near the door, and about to drop into the chair there, when the nurse stops on the way back out.

“You know,” she says to Sam in a half-whisper, “he didn’t have to say ‘brother’. I know North Carolina isn’t always the most open-minded place, but we’re not all bad.”

It takes Sam a few seconds to process what she’s saying, until he follows her gaze towards his brother and the angel. And yeah, he can definitely see why she might assume there’s something more than platonic or brotherly love there. The look on Dean’s face is gut-wrenching.

“Oh, thanks. It’s just...you never know,” Sam answers, figuring the lie is probably easier than trying to explain the truth. Dean can get pissy at him later if he wants.

“No problem. Let me know if you need anything.”

“We will.”

She leaves, and Sam settles in for a long night. He has every intent of staying up with his brother, of waiting for Mary to get back, but it doesn’t take long for his eyes to droop closed.

 

**********

 

He’s had some long nights in his thirty-sev— _Jesus,_ practically thirty- _eight_ years (and what a happy fucking almost-birthday this is), and he’s had more than a few over a hospital bed, just like this. The only difference is that it’s not Sam in the bed this time, it’s Cas, and somehow that’s better and worse. Better in the sense that if those scans and tests the doc showed them are right, Cas is still at least partly angelified, and worse because...

Well. At least Sam had known that he’s Dean’s number one priority, that he’s family, that he’s important. That he’s...cared for. Needed. Wanted.

He’s not sure Cas knows, or, if he does know (Dean’s _told_ him, for crying out loud), understands.

Not that he wants Sam in Cas’ place. Sophie’s choice. Hell, if he had to pick one of them to be in that bed, he’d volunteer himself. Sam and Cas’d be ok without him. Maybe it’s selfish, but Dean can’t bear the thought of losing either of them.

Sam’s nodded off in the chair behind them. Mom came back awhile ago (hours ago?) with coffee and a turkey sandwich that Dean can’t even think about eating. The coffee was bitter, but he'd drank it anyway. Eventually, he’d managed to convince her to get some rest, find them a motel for when Cas wakes up and they can bust him out of this joint.

Before she’d left, she taken one of Cas’ hands in her own, squeezed it gently, and murmured a thank you. He’d managed to get up and give her a hug, sending his own thanks for getting him and Sammy out of that place, and craving the human contact. The hug was still bittersweet, though—laced with the awkwardness of their relationship and haunted with the memories of his childhood. Even Sam had roused for a few moments to wish her a good night.

And then they’d lapsed into silence again. Silence except for the beeps of monitors and the soft footsteps of nurses making their rounds in the hallway. Sam’s breathing behind him is deep—not quite a snore, but close. Unable to deal with the quiet, not after the cell, Dean gets up to turn on the TV. He doesn’t even care what’s on. Just something in the background—voices, music, whatever. Anything but quiet. He absently registers that it’s that British—no, Scottish—guy on TV...Tennyson? Tennant? Something like that. A blue police box floats by the screen. _Doctor Who._ Never really been his thing, but he’s caught an episode here and there; you tend to see a little of everything when your motel rooms sometimes only get a few channels so you’re stuck watching whatever comes in.

He sits down again. The seat is uncomfortable, but it’s better than a concrete floor or a creaky cot.  

After six weeks of praying to Cas, after six weeks of isolation, Dean can hardly believe Cas is right in front of him. And of course, Cas still can’t talk back because they never can catch a fucking break, can they?

Maybe it’s just habit from praying or maybe it’s...who knows. But talking to Cas while he’s lying there just seems right.

“You gotta wake up, Cas. I know you’re trying to pull the human shtick, but I gotta tell ya, man, your acting hasn’t gotten any better,” he jokes hollowly. “Those tests? I mean, it’s not Agent Beyonce-level bad, but c’mon, you coulda tried a _little_ harder to come off normal.”

Of course there’s no response.

“Jesus, Cas. First you and Lucifer, and now this? You can’t do this to me—us. Not again, dammit.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, man, if you die, I’m gonna kill ya.”

“I thought was my job.”

Dean knows that voice, and it freezes his blood. Standing up slowly, he turns to face her. Sam, it seems, has woken up at her entrance, and he, too, is on his feet.

“Billie?” Sam says.

“Hello, Sam,” she answers, almost amused. “Dean.”

His hands clench by his sides. “What the fuck are you doing here? You reapin’ angels now?”

One corner of her mouth turns up. “It’s a hospital, Dean. People die here all the time. It’s kind of my scene. And no, but even if I were, does Castiel really count these days?”

Sam furrows his brow. “Wait, can you do that? Reap other angels?”

“There’s a lot I can do,” is the only cryptic answer they get, but that’s not what concerns Dean. Not right now at least.

“Whadya mean he’s not an angel?”

Billie crosses her arms. “How many fully powered angels have you seen in a hospital bed?”

“Not really human, though,” Dean says, then pauses. "...is he?”

“Thought that doctor answered that question, even if she didn’t know it.”

“What do you want, Billie?”

The Reaper turns to Sam, completely unfazed by the height difference. If anything, the quiet power Billie exudes makes Dean’s moose of a brother seem dwarfish.

“Just checking in. Was in the neighborhood, thought I should make an appearance. Besides, you all still owe me a soul.”

“Not yet we don’t,” Dean counters.

Slowly she turns. “Pretty sure you’ve each died a few times. And yet none of you have paid up permanently.”

“Still gonna have to wait to collect on that debt,” Dean grinds out. “If you’re not here to reap someone, you got no business here.”

She steps forward. Dean fights the urge to back up. “The old Death might have found the insolence amusing. Not sure I do.” Cool brown eyes survey him and Sam. “Well, since I’m not needed—yet—I’ll be going. See you around, boys.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Dean and Sam staring at each other amidst the flashes and anguished yells of whatever the fuck the characters on the TV are doing— _“Legs. I’ve still got legs. Good.”_ From the corner of his eye, Dean catches that it's some new British guy on screen, kissing his knees or something.

Exhaling a long breath, Sam says, “That was..."

“Yeah.” What else is there to say about a Reaper just popping in for a nice chat and reminder of their mortality while their friend is lying comatose in a hospital bed? Fun times.

 _“Chin, blimey. Hair—I’m a girl!”_ Without thinking, Dean reaches over and flicks the TV off again, not at all in the mood to try and figure out what the hell the British dude’s talking about.

“Dean?” an all-too welcome voice rasps out from behind him. “Sam?”

He spins on his heel to face the bed once more. “Cas? Cas, buddy, you ok?”

Heavy-lidded eyes groggily find Dean’s face, and the corners of Cas’ mouth drag back slowly for a small smile. “We got you out?”

“Yeah, yeah, you did, man. You did good. Nearly killed yourself trying, y’dumb bastard, but you did it. You and Mom—you came through for us. Like you always do.”

“Not always,” Cas admits ruefully.

Sam is next to the bed now, too. “You do when it matters, Cas. Can’t thank you enough, man.”

Looking between the two of them, Cas says, “Brothers, right? That’s...what you...do.”

“Family, Cas,” Dean confirms. For some reason, ‘brother’ just doesn’t seem right. He and Sam are brothers, no two ways about it. But Cas is...different.

He doesn’t know what Cas is to him anymore, but he knows that Cas is family. He prayed to Cas every day in that cell, he knew that Cas would come for them eventually. Dean Winchester might not have faith in much, but he’d had faith in Cas.

Under the pretense of helping Cas sit up, Dean takes the angel’s hand and puts his other hand behind his shoulder.

“C’mon, Cas. Let’s get out of here before we have to start paying bills and insurance. We’ll get Mom and we’ll head out.”

“Where?” Cas asks, allowing himself to be pulled up, disconnected from his IV, and put in a somewhat unsteady standing position.

Sam is already in the hallway checking to see if the coast is clear, while Dean loops an arm around Cas’ back at waist-level to help him walk.

“Home, Cas. We’re going home.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, um...this happened. [I rewrote the fic in a super cracky way.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9207806) Enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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